The Golden Scarecrow eBook

Her Grace was alone now with her son and heir and
the nurse. She bent over the cot and smiled upon
Henry Fitzgeorge; he smiled back at her, and even
gave an absent-minded crow; but his gaze almost instantly
swung back again to the window, through which, deeply
and with solemn absorption, he watched the clouds.

She gave him her hand, and he closed his fingers about
one of hers; but even that grasp was abstracted, as
though he were not thinking of her at all, but was
simply behaving like a gentleman.

“Less trouble than any baby I’ve ever
had to do with. Got His Grace’s happy temperament,
if I may say so.”

“Yes,” the mother laughed. She crossed
over to the window and looked down. “That
poor woman singing down there. How awful!
He’ll be going down to Crole very shortly, Roberts.
Splendid air for him there. But the Square’s
cheerful. He likes the garden, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, Your Grace; all the children and the
fountain. But he’s a happy baby. I
should say he’d like anything.”

For a moment longer she looked down into the Square.
The discordant voice was giving “Annie Laurie”
to the world.

“Good-bye, darling.” She stepped
forward, shook the silver and coral rattle. “See
what grannie’s given you!” She left it
lying near his hand, and, with a little sigh, was
gone.

III

Now, as the sun was setting, the clouds had broken
into little pink bubbles, lying idly here and there
upon the sky. Higher, near the top of the window,
they were large pink cushions, three fat ones, lying
sedately against the blue. During three months
now Henry Fitzgeorge Strether had been confronted
with the new scene, the new urgency on his part to
respond to it. At first he had refused absolutely
to make any response; behind him, around him, above
him, below him, were still the old conditions; but
they were the old conditions viewed, for some reason
unknown to him, at a distance, and at a distance that
was ever increasing. With every day something
here in this new and preposterous world struck his
attention, and with every fresh lure was he drawn more
certainly from his old consciousness. At first
he had simply rebelled; then, very slowly, his curiosity
had begun to stir. It had stirred at first through
food and touch; very pleasant this, very pleasant that.